Something's Coming
by Cybele3
Summary: At the end of West Side Story, Anita's all but destroyed. What happens to her next?
1. Chapter 1

**Something's Coming**

Summary: At the end of _West Side Story_, Anita is all but destroyed. What happens next?

Warnings: Rape (flashbacks to stage canon, i.e. the scene that seems to be described as the "taunting" scene in the movie).

Notes: This fic is based on the 2009 Broadway revival of _West Side Story. _I tried posting it to the WSS section of the Plays/Musicals category here, but judging by the hit count that I got (over a week, it was, like... 5? Including me?) nobody ever reads that section. With the one obvious difference detail warned about above, stage canon is very similar to movie canon. You can see a bit of Karen Olivo's interpretation of Anita here: .com/watch?v=aJdMqZKG7ic She's fierce.

CHAPTER ONE

Anita's rosary beads are blue and plastic, knotted together with ordinary string. She hadn't said the rosary since she was a child, but now she holds the beads in clenched fingers every night, sitting up straight against the wall in the twin bed that has been pushed into the corner of Consuela's room. She has begun to say a decade a night without really knowing the reason. It's something like counting sheep, maybe, although she knows it ought to mean more than that. She should find peace in the small ritual of it, or the grace of the Sacred Virgin.

But inevitably her mind strays over the events of the last two months, and what was meant as a litany of comfort has become a litany of loss. With each bead, the memory of one more piece of her life that has been torn from her; with each bead, one more stab to the heart.

_Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia..._

Maria was the last thing lost, and the first Anita's mind strays to - probing the loss lightly, testing the pain. Anita still doesn't know what would have happened if she had been able to tell Maria the whole story of that night before Maria heard it from that - that - she's moving too close to the source of a greater pain, and she knows from experience what nightmares will follow. But oh, God, surely Maria couldn't have turned her back this way if she'd known. Could she? If she had seen what those men had done, if she could only understand -

But she couldn't understand, and she never will now. That son of a whore Action had made sure of that. The imprint of his hand had still been red on Anita's thigh when he had done it, telling Maria "Tony thought you were dead," telling Maria "Anita said". And because Anita had said it Tony had run out into the streets screaming for Chino to shoot him, and Chino had obliged. Anita didn't even know it had happened, she'd been so lost in her own nightmare. She had been curled in the corner of a roaring shower that had long since run ice-cold, letting the numbness etch its way into her brain. When she'd finally gotten out of the shower she put on every piece of underwear that she owned, dressed in pajamas, wrapped herself in four blankets, and died into sleep. Someone could have come and shouted the news of Tony's death directly into her ear and she couldn't have heard them through her grief that night.

The first that she knew of it was when Maria had come into her bedroom the next morning, twin coals of hatred burning in her eyes. The bang of the bedroom door against the wall had wakened Anita; she'd curled into a fetal position immediately, pressing herself into the wall, every instinct screaming that she was about to be attacked again. It had taken her precious seconds to understand that it was Maria at the door, and those seconds had cost her the chance to explain. The moment ballooned out oddly, Anita watching. Maria's lips move without hearing the words. By the time she'd shaken off the panic and forced herself back into reality, Maria had taken in Anita's silence and interpreted it as she chose. "So it's true, then," she'd said, voice shaking, and Anita had no response - what was true? Before she could ask Maria's voice had risen to a scream: "You killed him!" _Bernardo_, Anita had thought dizzily, _how can she say I_ - and then Maria had run for the door. At the threshold she'd stopped, turned back to Anita. "You are dead to me," she said, in a voice Anita had never heard before. And then she was gone.

Two days later she was in the convent, cloistered. Anita tells herself she will never see her again. Hope would do nothing but keep the wound fresh.

The plastic bead has become slippery in her fingers, and Anita realizes she has forgotten to pray. She begins telling the beads again, trying to keep her mind on the Blessed Virgin, trying not to think.

_...ruega por nosotros pecadores..._

But how do you pray for a world of sinners when your life has been shattered by their sins? How do you forgive? Anita says the words with gritted teeth, feeling her knuckles go white on the rosary beads, but she has never been able to pretend anything to herself, and when she tries to pray for _nosotros pecadores, nosotros_ transforms itself into _esos_, and then there is no piety in her, only rage. Rage and something deeper, something alien and frightening. She envisions it as a cold riptide; she can't allow herself to be sucked under, she can't - _no, Santa Virgén protégeme, sálvame -_

Too late.

Because they are here. They return at night, taunting, dragging her back to the store. She's in her bed, she is sitting on her bed, and she needs to know that, this is not real, it's _not_ -

But she sees them.

They're there if her eyes are open; they're there if her eyes are shut. Each and every one: she will never forget a moment of it. She can smell beer and wood polish on the air. She can feel the knots and warps in the rough floorboards under her back, hear the thuds of knees hitting wood around her. The hand groping under her blouse, pinching and bruising. Incoherent epithets shouted in her face, cheering from the bystanders. Four hands forcing her legs apart, the sudden understanding:_ I_ _am helpless. They are going to -_ And then the world broke open on a single scream of pain, and of loss. No other man than Bernardo had ever been inside Anita. He was dead, but there had still been something almost sacred about her body because of that. The body she had dedicated to him, that he had kissed and caressed and loved. Bare hours after his death, and it was already defiled. It would never be his again, nor even wholly hers. The mark of what these men had done would never totally fade; she'd carry this poison inside her for the rest of her life.

Chino's gun has been confiscated by the police, and Anita doesn't know where to get another one. She has decided, very carefully, not to try to find out.

Bernardo would have killed them all, she knows. He would have tracked down every mother's son of them, cut them open and watched their lives spill out on the floor. And then, fleeing arrest, he would have taken her away - away from this horrible city with its gangs and rapes and hatred and death, taken her somewhere where they could breathe and heal and find a way to live like human beings...

_Bernardo_.

She mustn't cry. Consuela is across the room, snoring lightly, and she can't wake her again. Consuela has been as supportive as she knows how to be - the only real friend Anita has at this point - but Anita can't stand for Consuela to see her like this, stripped of all her defenses, raw and broken. If only Maria were here, maybe - oh God, Maria, oh God, _Bernardo_ -

Anita runs to the fire escape, just in time. She's pressing the edge of her robe into her mouth to muffle a rising scream, she's gagging on the dry fabric. How long can she possibly go on like this? How long?

Down in the street, in an alley off to the right, someone is watching Anita. Streetlights gleam faintly off a pair of green eyes, eyes that are studying the shaking woman above. This is not the first time Anita has been watched this way, although she's never known it.

The owner of the green eyes wonders if it is time to break the silence. There's a storm gathering, a bad one, and Anita is in the center of it. Bad as things have been for her, they could get a lot worse. A decent person would pass on a warning.

Soon. Maybe.

On the fire escape, Anita has gotten control of herself. She's slumped in the corner now, head on her knees. She'll be okay for the night now. Probably.

The green eyes trace the curves of Anita's body, taking in the lines of limb and torso and breast underneath a nightgown made translucent by limning streetlights. Those eyes have seen this body stripped from the waist down and wrenched open, seen it abused and left limp in defeat. They should have seen enough, those eyes. But they are still watching.

Anita is in trouble.

_Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte..._


	2. Chapter 2

Anybodys is very good with shadows; she can slip in and out of them like wind through a fence.

The guys laughed at her when she said it, of course. They've laughed at her for a lot when they're not ignoring her.

That used to matter more than it does now.

For weeks Anybodys has been straddling the line between two worlds. Her days are spent hanging at the edges of the Jets' crowd, same as they've always been, but there's a rougher edge to things now, like grains of sand in a high wind. The violence between the Jets and Sharks has ramped up like crazy in the last couple of months - the truce that began when Action draped Maria in her mourning veil had lasted about four minutes, because the only way the guys know to grieve is to break people's skulls - that's part of it, but Anybodys knows the better part of it is hers alone. Lately, she feels like she's living each moment with bees buzzing just under her skin. She wonders if this is how the rest of the Jets feel, the ones who've taken blows or worse from rival gang members. It's a hopped-up version of the same desperation Anybodys has lived with for as long as she can remember, and in the daytime her impulse is the same as it's always been: she wants to fight, to hear fist meet bone and feel her knuckles wet with blood. She wants strangers' faces to turn to pulp under her hands, wants to hear them begging for mercy through broken teeth. She wants this rage *out* of her.

That's the daytime part of Anybodys. At night...

...well, at night she watches Anita.

At first they were spy runs, those nights spent perched on someone else's fire escape, peering across the alley into the old apartment that Anita didn't share with anyone anymore. The Jets wanted Anita, Anybodys knew; she'd heard what they said down at Doc's. Anita was the reason Tony was dead, and the reason all-out bloody warfare had erupted between the Jets and the Sharks, with casualties and reprisals stacking up daily. She was the reason A-Rab was dead and Action was missing an eye and Snowboy was rotting away in lockup. The Sharks had suffered equal losses, but that didn't change the basic facts. Anita had done the unthinkable: she'd stuck her nose in men's business, messed with the delicate balance between the gangs.

When Anybodys started the spy runs, Anita was just another PR as far as Anybodys was concerned. The Jets wanted her? Anybodys would get her for them. Maybe then they'd see how much they needed Anybodys after all. Maybe then, finally, they'd let her in the gang.

Then the thing happened and Anybodys doesn't think about it - why would she? such a stupid thing - but that was when the bees started buzzing under her skin all the time and when she started seeing the look in Anita's eyes as she got pinned to that splinter-strewn floor every time that Anybodys closed her own eyes. It turns out that thinking about a thing like that can drive you crazy - what, so one spic bitch got what was coming to her? This is what's eating away at Anybodys from sunset to sunrise every goddamn night?- but she can't get rid of it. That look, oh god.

The thing was that Anybodys was right there with the Jets, whooping and hollering. No one could have mistaken her intentions for anything but what they were: there was no way to misunderstand. Her voice had pitched up high over the crowd, cheering A-Rab on...

...and Anita had looked at her with this naked plea in her eyes, a look that was meant for Anybodys alone. It was a look that begged Anybodys to help because it was what any woman would do for another woman in circumstances like this. It was a look that said that she and Anybodys had something in common that ran deeper than race or gang affiliation, something that mandated that Anybodys help Anita now.

"Tear her up, A-Rab! *Fuck* that bitch," Anybodys had spat in response, eyes locked hard on Anita's. She wanted Anita to see her say it, wanted her to understand exactly what it meant.

The exchange took a fraction of a second, in the middle of a pure chaos of shouts and screams - but somehow, Anita got it. When Doc came in her eyes were fever-bright with hatred, but they were clear, and she did not look at Anybodys again. There was no need. Anybodys was uno de ellos.

It was supposed to feel better than this.

Anybodys is great with shadows, with stealth and silence, but that particular memory always sets her foot twitching nervously. Unfortunately, now is not a good moment for that. The pavement where Anybodys is standing is cracked and rough, littered with grit and small chips of concrete, and the first Anybodys realizes she's digging the toe of her shoe into one of the cracks is when a little stone dislodges and goes skittering down the alley. On the fire escape, Anita goes rigid immediately, and you can practically see her nerve endings prickling as her senses go into hyperaware overdrive. Anybodys freezes, but it's too late: Anita's eyes are already raking the shadows. Anybodys is good but she's not invisible. Anita catches the gleam of Anybodys' eyes looking up at her.

Now would be the right time for Anita to scream. Consuela is crashed out for the night in the next room, Pepe and Rosalia are in the next apartment, and the whole neighborhood is tense with anticipation of the next battle. A quick visual sweep of the alley is enough to tell Anita, her senses heightened by terror, that there is only one of them - and that it's that girl, that coño who stood there and cheered while - Anita shuts it down with a snap. She should scream. If she screams it'll get this girl killed. She should scream.

She's opening her mouth when she hears the crunch of gravel, feet moving fast across the pavement. That sound of heels digging in, that's the sound of jumping, and then the fire escape clangs and the scream catches in Anita's throat because she is truly terrified now. God in heaven, when will this be over? What does this Jet girl, what do any of the Jets, have to do with Anita anymore? "No -" It's more a gasp than a scream but that's okay, she's getting her voice back - "No, get away, get away! You -"

"Well, if you'd quit jabbering in Spanish I might be able to understand you," Anybodys says, aggrieved, and Anita falls silent, as much in surprise at Anybodys' tone as at the realization that she's reverted to Spanish without meaning to. Not that it matters. Consuela will understand her. "Consuela -" she begins, voice pitching higher. In a flash Anybodys is beside her, reaching up to cover her mouth, but _no Jesús_ and Anita's twisted away so violently that Anybodys goes reeling across the fire escape and slams into the opposite rail, nearly going over. Anita's gasping, fighting against the flood of emotions that hit her when Anybodys' hand clamped over her mouth, and wondering how the hell much Consuela had to drink tonight if she's managing to sleep through all this. But no matter. Anita's already got her hand on the doorknob when she hears Anybodys call out behind her - "Hey! Hey, Anita!" _As though we're friends,_ Anita thinks scornfully. _When did my name stop being spic?_ The door's stuck - it does that in the summers. She jiggles it, frustrated and still freaked out, feeling Anybodys coming up beside her. "Hey -"

Anita gives up on the door and whirls to face the other girl, looking for the knife or the gun. She's ready to kick whichever one it is to the air as soon as it gets pulled, but seeing Anybodys apparently emptyhanded confuses her. "Why are you here?" she demands, her voice at least two notches higher than she'd like. "What are you -"

"Again with the Spanish! Jesus," Anybodys says, irritated. Anita realizes it's time to get a grip.

"What are you doing here? No one wants you," Anita says, picking her way carefully through the English words. She looks Anybodys over again: no weapons, no fighting stance. She looks like... well, like she wants to talk. Anita can't imagine why, but the relief of it leaves her slumped against the railing. But the relief comes mixed with a hefty dose of anger, too, and she lets her tone change accordingly. "This is no place for little white girls," she says acidly. "You should -"

"I'm no little girl!" Anybodys cries, firing up immediately. "I got information on the Jets - information you need, you dig? So cut the frabajaba and just listen."

Anita stares. "By all means," she says, letting the s trail long and sibilant, the way Bernardo would have. "Let's 'cut the frabajaba.'" The mockery in the last bit is unmistakable; it's a brand of sarcasm Anita specializes in. And the force with which Anybodys slams her fist against the railing, making a clanging noise loud enough to send the rats in the alley scuttling and the whole fire escape vibrating, only reconfirms it in Anita's mind: Anybodys really, _really_ does not like being made fun of.

"You wanna laugh, go ahead, you -" Anybodys catches herself and lowers her voice, her eyes darting over Anita's shoulder. "No one *made* me come here tonight," she says. "Fact is, I could get in a lot of -" She breaks off suddenly. "Forget it. I don't even know why I came. Just - be careful, right? Bye -" It's said in an odd tone of voice, or maybe that's just because she's already turning to go. She's got one leg over the railing when Anita's hand grasps her wrist.

"All that and you're leaving? No. You need to explain." She looks Anybodys over critically, sifting through the words she's let slip. "No one made you come here. You could get in trouble... You're betraying them by coming here. That's what you mean?" But Anybodys' mind has short-circuited a bit at the pressure of Anita's hand on her flesh, long bronze-hued fingers curled around Anybodys' own putty-colored wrist. Anita still wears Bernardo's ring, Anybodys notices. The little metal circlet is cold against her skin. Anybodys' pulse has picked up; she hopes Anita doesn't notice.

But Anita just gives Anybodys' arm a little shake of impatience. "Why are you here?" she asks again. The undercurrent of anger in her voice is steady, but controlled. She doesn't let go.

"I came 'cause -" But the words have dried up in Anybodys' throat. Why *did* she come? This is crazy. She belongs with the Jets. She looks down at her feet.

"I know the last time I saw you." Anita's voice is low and fierce; the ring is beginning. to bite into Anybodys' wrist. "I remember. Did you think I wouldn't?" Now her voice has begun to shake, and Anybodys realizes, with intense discomfort, that the other woman is on the brink of tears. "You're no better than any of them. Maybe worse." The look of pure disgust she levels at Anybodys stings worse than a slap. "Tell me why it is you are here, or leave."

"They're going to come for you." Anybodys blurts it out fast, before she can change her mind. "The Jets... they're out to get you."


	3. Chapter 3

Anita is silent for a moment. Then: "Out to get me." The mockery has returned. "You tell them they are mixed up somewhere... They already 'got me'."

The bitterness in her voice is unbelievable.

"You remember," Anita adds.

"Yeah -" Actually, Anybodys is trying as hard as she can not to remember. "But that ain't all of it. You don't know... it's all gotten so bad, everyone's ready to kill now. When A-Rab got killed -"

Anita spits out a string of Spanish syllables that Anybodys is glad she doesn't understand.

"Yeah, okay, but what I'm saying, it's like everyone went crazy. Supposed to be this big truce, and you gotta admit, the Jets were sticking by that -"

"Oh, so it's all the Sharks' fault! Of course! My family - what's *left* of my family - they should have heard what that –" more Spanish – "did to me and bake him a cake. A way to _thank_ him for his truce. No more fighting. All square." She shoots Anybodys a look like the snap of ice cracking, like the plunge into freezing water. "Why are you _here_? To tell me how wonderful are the Jets?

"No!" Anybodys is surprised at her own vehemence. "It's just... I'm just saying, it's scary out there now. Everybody has a gun. Everybody wants to use it. They're all so angry and it's like... it's like everyone's so angry and no one even knows why anymore.

"We still know why," Anita says, and the bite of venom in her voice hasn't changed at all. Anybodys flares up, starts to say something, and then catches sight of Anita's face and looks down, scuffing her foot. Now it's Anybodys' turn to try to forget.

Anita watches this happen. And looks away herself, lips pressed into a hard line. In the room behind her she hears a loud creak as Consuela shifts and turns over in her rickety metal-framed bed. Almost she turns to go in, leave this strange girl on the fire escape alone.

But if she goes in Consuela might wake up, might see something is wrong. Might demand to know what has happened. And Anita somehow isn't sue she wants to tell. If she tells, if this girl is killed, Anita has the uncomfortable feeling that she will have killed something in herself as well. For the first time, she has a sense of what allowing her rage and hatred to burn bright as Bernardo's could cost her. Bernardo would rather be killed trying to kill a Jet than live without trying to kill at all. And Anita is suddenly less grieved by his dying than by what he allowed himself to become in the months before he died.

"You should go, little girl," she says, then waves a hand impatiently as Anybodys' chin jerks up, an angry retort at her lips. "Whoever. I don't know your name, I don't want to know your name. Go before you are killed."

"You go too."

"What?" Anita says, startled.

"That's what I'm telling you. You got to go before you get killed."

_Why do you care?_ "Where would I go? I have no money to go to Puerto Rico. I have no money to go anywhere," she says, in lieu of asking.

Anybodys glances at Anita's face, then looks away. "I got money."

"What?" She looks over Anybodys' ragged clothing, almost asks where she got this money, then decides she doesn't want to know.

"I said I got money," Anybodys repeats, too loud this time.

"I heard you. Why do you tell me this?"

Anybodys has a vision of herself jumping the rail on the fire escape, swinging down the supporting bars, running away from this incredibly stupid thing she is about to do. Then she takes a deep breath and does it anyway:

"Come with me."

Anita stares at her, astonished.


End file.
